So we meet our guardian angel at a rest stop off I 5. Angels wear disguises on Fridays when it's 70 degrees. The ocean's at our elbow. All that mica-flecked, pale-ale colored air. Suddenly a funny look on Stu's face. "What?" I say, and he says, "We've got 30,35 miles left." Gas, he means. The truck makes a sound like it's choking and bucks like an ornery bronc. There's a ramp to View Area just ahead. The only Exit for the next 17 miles. Stu steers in out of the way of the big rigs. We get out and Stu heads over to the hard boiled egg vending machine. He's back in a minute. A beatup stakebed pulls up alongside. A guy jumps down from the cab and starts thumping the drums in back. He gets a siphon in one and dumps 2 or 3 gallons into our tank. He's reed-thin. His clothes look like rust. His boots too. His hair is a long silver ponytail. His eyes are neon blue. Stu tries to give him money but he pushes Stu's hand away. We get back in the truck and when we turn to wave... He's disappeared. Another freeway story. Yep, we do have hardboiled eggs in our vending machines.

He looks out the window down the sand-blown road. On this desert the road is a saints name. No number at the door. A place of harsh light and bright beauty. Long afternoons and fast sunsets. Bougainvillea trailing over the balcony rail. A matadors thorny cape. Their papery blossoms conspiring with scorpions in the corner. Dust devils whirl his mirage. The mosaic courtyard with its scrolled iron gate. The painted table and chairs. The riotous flowers Mardi Gras faces. The hot wind licking the plates. Coarse salt and a pyramid of limes. His nights lay down under star-strewn skies. Slow bees come to rest by his side. In golden pools they hum and doze in the palm of his sleeping hand.

December summer. Strawberry fields bordered with sunflowers. Two yellow planes cruising low where waves are breaking. Waves are like snowflakes. No two exactly the same. The slow ocean does not freeze here. Nor do we see our breath in vapor in front of our eyes. Palms explode daily against a benevolent sky. The four of them out there with feet dangling over their boards. Leashed to fiberglass islands. The sea lifts and settles. Their worlds are green. Are water. Small kings of the new tribe.

Wonderful shopping with Mr. Gardener tonight. This time... A jewelry store. His Lady Catherine likes rose gold and opals. Colors of the desert sky. A braided band. And a wedding at the small Church I can see from my kitchen window. Built for acoustics. The children's choir will sing If You Were The Only Girl In The World and Beautiful Dreamer. Third or fourth Saturday in January. Depending upon when Father Don gets back from cold North Dakota. The reception is at our house. "...immediately following the ceremony..." Five minutes from the Church to our door. Mr. Gardener's son wanted it in Las Vegas. "We'll rent a slot machine," Stu says.

They're planting trees on the street where I work. First an "X" in orange Dayglow on the sidewalk. Next, lift out the squares like brownies in a pan. Stake yellow CAUTION tape before the leaves drop in. Brassy now. But wait until April!

We walk into Coast Jewelry and Antiques. "Opals and rose gold," Mr. Gardener says. We are expected. Like magicians, Maddie and Jim, the proprietors produce four sleeves of rolled black velvet. They spread them out on the counter before us. Loose stone and set pieces. A kaleidoscope of colors. One hundred shades of blue. I try on all the rings. Two or three on each finger. My fingers are on fire. Maddi and Jim bring hot Chai tea and tell us where some of the stones were mined. They invite us to tour The Tourmaline Queen, a working mine in Pala about 20 miles inland. Mr. Gardener is nearly blind. He holds each ring up close to his eyes. He sets one of the rings aside. And an antique hairclip shaped like a butterfly. All opals. The hairclip is set in white gold. Catherine's hair is white and silver. The ring is a braided band of oval opals in delicate rose gold. A ring that looks like love. I wish I could draw it on this computer. Mr. Gardener says, "The butterfly for sure. And the ring on her approval. Now you're not gonna charge me no entertainment tax, are ya?" He brought the butterfly home for Christmas. Saturday they'll cruise down the coast and he'll suggest they stop in the store. "She's already said 'yes' so I got nothin' to lose if she don't like the ring." I said, "Ralph, you know she'll LOVE it!" He laughed like he knew that was true.

Fog last night. 5 miles an hour by bicycle on the Pacific Coast Highway. No planes in my sky. Only stars I couldn't see. Busy night for the Coast Guard full of donuts and coffee. All boats dropped anchor. Had to be led in. Didn't know their radar. Didn't know red right returning. Didn't know their sea. This morning many boats in the newspaper. FOR SALE - BEST OFFER. The waves roll. The stones turn. I think of you. The Sailor.

Here come the waves by way of Siberia and Hawaii. Expected to be 15 feet high at Swami's and Sunset Cliffs. The beachfront restaurants are barricaded by boulders that fly through their dining rooms like marbles riccocheting inside fishbowls every few years. When the tide peaks and the Pacific Ocean crosses the Pacific Coast Highway at Cardiff by the Sea. The tide peaks at 1:17pm tomorrow. Storm surf is like being in the eye of a hurricane. A green room. An echo chamber. A huge roaring tunnel you can hear your scream inside of. You ride with your arms extended. Your fingers dragging the rolling walls to slow you down. Fingers are brakes. When the wave closes out, it spits everything inside it including the surfer. You need to keep your balance then. Not get pounded with the weight of the water. Or the wave right behind it. Don't look back. You eat a lot of sand. Today there's also Santa Ana. Glittery bright air. Leaves curling at the window scritch-scratching to get in. Hot winds that makes the waves ruffled spill effervescent. Water 60. Air 81.

The biggest Department Store in town. A block long on Main Street. Six windows of Christmastime magic. A moonlit village with steepled Churches. Smoke rising from red brick chimney tops in plump donut rings. Halos around everything. A Hans Brinker skating pond edged with sleds. Santa's workshop. Reindeers and Lionel locomotives. Elves in buckled boots and tiny leather aprons. Mouths full of shiny nails. Mrs. Claus's Olde Bakery Shoppe. Shortbread pinwheels coming out of the ovens under clouds of spun-sugar steam. Candy cane smocks and stripped stockings. Pointy-toed slippers and holly hats with bells. A big calendar hanging crooked to count down the days. Kids with their noses pressed up against the glass sucking their hair into icicles. And just over there by the streetlamp... Under snowflakes gently falling... POe.

The biggest Department Store in town. A block long on Main Street. Six windows of Christmastime magic. A moonlit village with steepled Churches. Smoke rising from red brick chimney tops in plump donut rings. Halos around everything. A Hans Brinker skating pond edged with sleds. Santa's workshop. Reindeers and Lionel locomotives. Elves in buckled boots and tiny leather aprons. Mouths full of shiny nails. Mrs. Claus's Olde Bakery Shoppe. Shortbread pinwheels coming out of the ovens under clouds of spun-sugar steam. Candy cane smocks and stripped stockings. Pointy-toed slippers and holly hats with bells. A big calendar hanging crooked to count down the days. Kids with their noses pressed up against the glass sucking their hair into icicles. And just over there by the streetlamp... Under snowflakes gently falling... POe.

How they walked not a straight line but bumping against each other. Side to side. And backwards too. With wide gestures. Easy to see when they agreed and embellished. Easy to see when they did not. Then his hands would go still and his chin solemn. And he would not blink his eyes. Everything started or stopped by his side. Her, not even holding her breath when feigning impatient disguise. No shuddering grief assailed them. Mornings he would turn to his magic cabinet. Its carved wooden boxes with treasures inside. He would lift the lid on The Box of Names. "For today," he would say and hand her a scrap of paper.

My friend, I bind my soul with your flag. Tattered, but not fallen. Through the denser light of Durrow over 600 years ago you made your way along the granite quay. Nicked finger. Heart full of vows. Now you stand with your back to the campfire under ornamental stars. This celestial night at your shoulders.